


A Journey to the Core

by Nunewesen



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Friendship, Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:05:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nunewesen/pseuds/Nunewesen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Watson is finding himself unusually uncomfortable in his friendship with Sherlock Holmes. He decides to take a break and visit an old friend and client to clear his mind. But things do not work out exactly as anticipated, and so this particular journey takes him much further than simply into the country of Devonshire...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Escape

The train took me away from London, and I leant back in my seat and tried my best to relax. It was about time for a little vacation, I told myself. Holmes and I had just gone through a whole series of trying cases, and as he himself had shown no inclination at all to give himself a rest, I had decided, at least this time, to go on my own.

I am not really used to doing such things, though. Especially since his return into the world of the living after Reichenbach, I have often found myself rather unwilling to leave him for a longer period of time. This might be considered a quite sentimental notion, but then again, I thought with a joyless smile, it did fit smoothly into the picture, didn't it? Sentimental fool!

Oh, yes, I needed the vacation. I needed some time away from him, to rest, to think. To forget. Things had been a bit difficult lately, and I could not even explain why. After all, everything seemed perfectly normal – well, at least as normal as one could call my living and working together with Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective. The obvious conclusion for me was that I simply had worked too much and slept insufficiently – and required a change of air.

I was looking forward to seeing Sir Henry again. It may not have become obvious from my official writings, but since the case publicly known as the “Hound of the Baskervilles” we have maintained some sort of friendship. It had been him who, after the death of my dear Mary, had persuaded me to stay some time at Baskerville Hall until he had been convinced that I could do on my own again. It was not a friendship like the one I share with Holmes, naturally, but at the moment that was just as well. I could very well use the company of someone less complicated…

The landscape around me gradually changed into the rough beauty of Devonshire - such a change after the crowded streets of London! The weather was welcoming. A bright sun favoured the hills, fields, moors and granite rocks and the blue sky was almost cloudless. I let my mind wander into the past…

My first journey here had been to accompany Sir Henry, the heir of Baskerville Hall, to his new estate in order to protect him from at that point still unknown enemies. Holmes had pretended to be staying back in London, while in truth he had followed us within short and stealthily, in order to allow him to investigate this new case of ours without his presence being known to the public – and not to me, either.

The “Adventure of the Hound of the Baskervilles” had later been brought to a successful conclusion – but not without casualties, leaving a deeply disappointed, shocked and bitter Sir Henry Baskerville.

Some time after that, Holmes and I had paid another short visit to the place. We had just finished another case, one of those which I have not published due to reasons of discretion, and our journey back home had led us through this part of the country. Holmes had consented to call upon the young baronet, who had just returned from a lengthy journey that had brought back his nerves and his spirits, and I had been very glad to notice that change for the better.

My third visit at Baskerville Hall… it had been the saddest one. I hardly remember those first days after my arrival there. Never in my whole life had I felt so forlorn. I had lost Holmes in Switzerland, and now I had also lost my wife. Sir Henry had taken care of me, spent the evenings with me in front of a warming fire, walked with me for hours and listened to me as I recollected my previous visits of happier times.

It was Sherlock Holmes’ most unexpected return to the living that had kind of restored my world. I will not deny an amount of additional pain as a consequence of those events… but we both had made it through and had emerged from it with a bond of friendship that had proven to be even stronger than before.

So, why did I feel now all this discontent? Why did I feel as if something was wrong with my life? What kind of blame was there to be put onto my friend who had done nothing to offend me? I had been feeling irritable and annoyed for several weeks now, and yet, there seemed to be nothing to justify these negative feelings – a fact that made me feel even more irritable and annoyed… with myself. I felt as if I was running away from home, and yet, my medicinal conscience insisted upon the fact that I was simply exercising what I would recommend to my patients as well: a little vacation.

I was still deep in thought, when the door to my compartment was suddenly opened and an elderly gentleman, a member of the cloth it seemed, entered, greeted me and took a seat in the opposite corner. I tensed, opened my newspaper and tried to look at him unobtrusively. A sudden thought had come to my mind, and I just could not dismiss it: Could it be?

The man did not seem to pay me any further attention, rummaged in his bag and produced a black leather book, which I recognised as a bible. Again, could it be? Had Holmes followed me and this was him in another one of his disguises? And if so, did I rejoice in that? Did I want him to be following me right now? Anyway, when the train stopped at the next station, my companion took leave and I understood that my speculations had been in vain. What I was not quite sure about, though, was whether I felt relieved or rather oddly dissapointed...

One of the first impressions I got from this fourth visit at Baskerville Hall was that of a certain familiarity. Granted, it was still an occasionally sombre place with a long history and the usual darker spots that often go along with it. It also bore a vast amount of memories in its solid walls that had passed through several centuries. Some of those memories were my own.

Anyway, it is the kind of place that grows on you with time, and I knew there was a reason why not only Sir Henry, in spite of the unpleasant events that marked his first weeks here, had decided to stay at the ancient seat of his family. Also the Barrymores, the butler and his wife, whom I already knew from my first arrival, had in contrast to their original plans after the untimely death of their former employer decided to stay in the household. Both looked much more at ease than in earlier times, and I could see from the vivid and expressive hazel eyes of my host that he as well was again in full possession of his good spirits.

“It’s really good to have you here again, Doctor”, the baronet remarked good-naturedly after dinner, some time after we had both withdrawn to the billiard room. “I’ve been missing a serious challenge, and you really play a mean cue ball. So, your cases must be leaving you both at least some time to practise, now and then.”

“Holmes and I, you mean?” I chuckled at the mere thought of it. “I’m not even sure if Holmes has ever held a cue in his hands unless considering it a possible murder weapon. He would be forced to visit a club in order to play, after all.”

“I see…” Sir Henry bent over the table and delivered an expert move which gained him another two points and was – from the enthusiast’s point of view - a sight to behold. “So that’s a bit too sociable for his taste…”

“Something like that. No, I use the opportunity of sometimes playing with Joe Thurston at my club.”

He raised his eyebrows. “The Joe Thurston? I’m impressed, Doctor, a hell of a player!”

“Mhm…”

He suddenly eyed me curiously. “Watson, are you quite all right?”

“What? Oh… why yes, of course I am!”

But I could not help it – the mentioning of Holmes had brought back the meanwhile all too familiar uneasiness, which I had been able to disregard during the last hours. I tried to check myself – but I missed my next put anyway.

~~~

My friend was sitting beside me on the settee. His face looked concerned, but he nevertheless seemed at a loss regarding my present state of mind. But I was already past the point of endurance.

„You don’t understand, Holmes!“ After weeks of half-smiles, endless looks, numerous innuendos, casual touches, a series of sleepless nights, rather strange dreams and uneasy mornings… my nerves were quite on the edge. I knew I had to do something about this: He obviously had NO idea what he was doing to me! “Can’t you see that you have been sending all those wrong signals lately? Do you suppose I am made of stone? Well, just so you know: I am not!”

He looked at me for a long time… then he asked calmly: “Has it ever occurred to you that I might be sending just the right signals?”

And then he kissed me, and I had neither time nor inclination to resist, for his mouth was already ravishing mine in a most delicious way, his knowing hands were all over my body and I knew for certain there was nothing… nothing… I would be able to refuse to him just now…

It was that very moment that I woke of with a jerk. Eyes wide open, panting and sweating, I stared into the darkness and tried to find the path back to reality. I felt rather shaken: What in God’s name had THAT been?

I stumbled out of bed and towards the window, where a faint light already penetrated the curtains. Indeed, dawn was breaking – and this was not London, this was Devonshire. Holmes was far away, in Baker Street, and I was alone. I pulled the curtains open and looked outside. Fog was emerging from the lawns, and fog seemed to encompass my mind as well. One thing, though, I knew for certain: I had to stop this!

A splash of cold water from the wash stand soothed my burning face. It was almost six o’clock, and I somehow had the feeling that I could not get back to sleep anyway. So I made some additional light and went through my morning routine in order to make myself presentable, hoping that the usual tasks would distract me from this… astonishingly graphic dream. But when I opened the razor blade and put it against my throat in order to shave, my hands were still trembling so heavily that I decided to better give myself a few additional moments before attempting again to bring a sharp knife in close proximity to vital blood vessels.


	2. The Art of Self Observation

I spent the next two days reacquainting myself with the area as well as with several people. Doctor Mortimer, the resident physician who had been the one to consult Holmes all those years ago on the mysterious case of the Baskerville family curse, came over to dinner and the following day took us for an excursion to show us his recent archaeological findings.

This endeavour also brought us amidst the circle of ancient stone huts which had in Neolithic times been inhabited by our early ancestors – and one of them, though for a much shorter and more recent period of time, by Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself.

The memories came over me like a tidal wave. While Mortimer explained something to my host of which I only caught some phrases about bones and skulls, I entered the simple prehistoric abode, the voices fading into oblivion.

There was not much light, and the air was a little cooler than outside in the sun. I sat down on the low platform that represented the equivalent of a bed and touched the cold stony surface. Holmes had slept here for a few nights, and if I concentrated hard enough I would surely be able to imagine a remainder of his body warmth… ridiculous as the thought might seem from today’s point of view.

I closed my eyes, almost involuntarily. Pictures, flashes, were rushing through my mind… he was playing the violin for me, a hauntingly sweet song, one of his own compositions… he was taking my arm as we were walking down the street, side by side… his eyes sparkling with excitement over a new case… the tone of his voice when he was calling me “my dear fellow”… his presence in the drawing room in companionable silence… the expression on his face while listening to a musical performance… we both sitting and chatting over dinner at Marcini’s… a slight touch at the shoulder… a little amused wink… his face close to mine as I regained consciousness after fainting at his unexpected return into my life… his nonchalant yet ever elegant way of moving…

I could almost hear him, feel him… it was as if he was with me every step of the way, wherever I went. I have a small tattoo on my shoulder, some remainder of my time in India. It is quite artistically done, colour applied directly under my skin to remain there. It suddenly occurred to me that I wore Holmes almost the same way – though he had gone under my skin far deeper. And into my mind. And my heart. Where he would always be.

Yes. I realised it there and then. I loved him, had probably been loving him for a very long time by now. I felt not shocked by this sudden awareness, only amazed that I could have been so blind as to not understand it earlier! I had never perceived myself as an invert before, though – but it was true: I was longing for my friend in every sense of the word! Far too present in my mind was that dream of him kissing and caressing me, far too present the instantaneous reactions of my body as that I could possibly deny it.

There was it, the secret source of my trouble, disguised as discontent, weariness, anger and uneasiness… I was sensible enough to finally admit it to myself.

But the realisation of my feelings was only one part of the problem. More important was the question, how I could hide them from my friend, now that I was aware of them. Would he not be able to read it from my features – he, who had always known me better than anybody else, even better than my own wife? Would I not lose his respect? Would he not ban me from his presence, he who abhorred the softer emotions? How was I to veil such a monstrous secret? What was I to do now?

 

~~~

 

For some reason Sir Henry chose exactly this evening for the topic of love. We had been discussing some of the paintings in the gallery, one of them his infamous ancestor Sir Hugo… which brought us to the old case of the deadly hound… which brought us to Beryl Stapleton, the woman my host had wooed before he had to learn that she was in fact not the sister of the brute Stapleton (like I have decided to keep naming him in my mind) but his wife, forced to pose as a bait for the new Baskerville heir.

“I have had much time to think the matter over, you know,” Sir Henry said philosophically over a glass of fine port. “There is a distinctive difference, I believe, between falling in love with somebody – and being in love with somebody. You fall in love with a person as you perceive her to be at the start. And you are in love with the person you get to know, comes time. I have never had the chance to be in love with Beryl Stapleton… does that make any sense for you, doctor?”

I did not answer directly, for my thoughts were highly occupied with an incident that had sprung to my mind by the words of my companion. There are moments in the life of a person that seem small and of minor importance when they happen – and yet they mark the point of some path turning into crossroads. Such a moment had taken place for me in 1881, when a much younger Sherlock Holmes had shaken my hand and said casually: “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.” I could not help but wonder if that had been my moment of falling in love as well… only I had not noticed for the duration of years… were such things possible?

Sir Henry looked at me expectantly, and I understood that I was still owing him a reply. “Indeed”, I said. “And those are lucky people who have the chance to experience both states of mind… or maybe we should say… of heart. It might take some time, though, but one shouldn’t give up hope on finally finding the right m…- person.” I hastily cleared my throat. Lucky people… I added grimly in my mind. At least if the love is reciprocated.

My host did not seem to have noticed my little lapsus. Instead, a sudden smile brightened up his face. “Would you care for a bit of society tomorrow evening? There are a few people – a certain lady especially – I would like you to meet.”

I eyed him curiously.

 

~~~

 

I withdrew to my room fairly early, because I finally felt the urgent need to be alone with my musings. The day had been so extremely remarkable… had I really have to travel all the way to Devonshire to understand what had been right in front of my nose all the time? I kept pacing on the thick oriental carpet of the guest room. Then again, it was good that the moment of realisation had caught me in solitude, far away from Holmes’ observant eyes. Had he been with me at that time, no self control in the world could have prevented me from displaying it all on my face, willingly or not.

When I finally had dressed to lie down I found myself tossing and turning. Sleep did not come easily to me that night. Eventually though, I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke up in the morning, all of the bedclothes were in utter disarray, and I had the vague memory of a whole series of dreams. Parts of them were rather blurry in my mind, but they seemed to have one thing in common: All of them were of Holmes – and all of them were of a more or less carnal nature…

It seemed my whole body was still aching for him. I don’t know if it was the usual early-morning-phenomenon or a result of those dreams, but my state of arousal was so very acute… I could still feel his hot breath on my skin… I heard his voice telling me things I knew he would never, ever, say to me… I got lost in the depths of his eyes… the touch of his hands… until in fact it was the touch of my own hands… touching myself… touching… till and beyond that point when I found the so urgently needed release…

Some time later a look in the mirror revealed the face of a man I had never seen before that way. I think I even held an inner dialogue with that man in the mirror, telling him that such behaviour would better have no place back in Baker Street, telling him to get a grip, to return to the path of reality, to use a little bit of common sense!

I can not claim the best of moods when I left the room and ventured downstairs for breakfast. But I thought some strong coffee would do me good now, and maybe a stroll outside for some fresh air. I heard little noises through the open doors of the dining room that told me that Barrymore was in the process of serving breakfast. And as I entered I was greeted by a well-known voice:

“Morning, my dear fellow. It seems you are quite an early riser today!”

I believe I actually made half a step backwards in my surprise…

This… was… impossible!

~~~


	3. Hide and Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It may be one thing to make up your mind about your feelings for your friend... but what do you do, when all of a sudden you have to face him again?

“Holmes! How the…?” I did not even finish the question, suddenly a bit concerned about the colour of my ears… for I very much feared them to have turned pink at his mere sight!

“Yes,” was his dry response. “I am glad to see you as well. Will you join me for a cup of this _excellent_ coffee?” He nodded his thanks to Barrymore who had just been pouring him another cup and then turned his attention back to me.

“Yes, please,” I said – to him as well as to the butler. I then settled down at the table, still not over the fact that my very best friend, the constant object of my thoughts, had so suddenly appeared at Baskerville Hall.

“As to your initial question”, Holmes added, “my presence here is due to yesterday’s evening train and to Sir Henry’s telegram confirming your safe arrival and repeating his invitation to join you both whenever the whim struck me. It seems at the time of my arrival you had already been gone to bed with a headache, though. Hope you’re feeling better today.”

“Err… yes, thank you.” I found myself unable to take my eyes off him. “So… the whim has indeed stricken you, then?” I enquired, suddenly anxious to keep the conversation going, and all the same feeling strangely insecure about what to say. “I mean, there must be a reason for you changing your mind…”

“My dear fellow, do I always need a reason for doing certain things?”

“Indeed, old chap. As your friend and colleague I happen to know that you do!”

That remark made him chuckle, and I was instantly reminded how effortlessly he was able to charm me.

He held my gaze for a moment before he conceded: “Well, I will grant you that, Watson. In this case let me just say that this telegram of our host had reminded me of a conversation I have had with my doctor before he left for his vacation. Said doctor had mentioned that it would do me good to spend a few days of leisure in the countryside as well. And though I recall having rejected that idea, and rather gruffly, I must admit… I have come to the conclusion that there might be some merit in the suggestion.”

…to charm me, I thought. To utterly charm me…

“As your doctor”, I managed, “I am of course glad to hear that.”

“And beyond being my doctor?” The question came out in a casual tone, and his face looked almost indifferent – but even with my comparatively limited powers of observation I had noticed the subtle flicker of emotion in his eyes. There had to be something behind those words, even if I did not know what to make of it. I confess it puzzled me to see him like this.

“Beyond that…I am equally glad to hear it, Holmes.”

“So I am not disturbing you?”

At that point his words seemed indeed very odd to me. After all, he was not really in the habit to ask me such a question. And yes, one could argue that his unexpected presence, especially after such a night and an awkward early morning, might have been slightly… inconvenient for me. I could have used a bit of geographical distance to come to terms with my unsettled state of feelings. But the simple truth was, he was just where I wanted him to be, and that was close to me. Not exactly close, of course. But at least… near.

“No, not in the least.” It was the only possible answer.

Only when I noticed the slight movement of his shoulders, indicating that he was relaxing, I understood he had been waiting for my reply with some amount of tension. How very odd!

He gave me one of his familiar half-smiles. “Very well, then.” With that he leant back in his chair and watched me over the rim of his cup, favouring me with the same intensity he would usually dedicate to an intriguing case.

This was rather unsettling for me, and I desperately tried to look anywhere but at him. In my search for distraction I started to butter a piece of toast, but my mouth seemed strangely dry, and I could only swallow with an effort. When I tried to wash it all down with a sip of my coffee, I choked on the hot liquid and started coughing violently. Holmes darted to my side (which should only much later occur to me as a curious behaviour), but when he saw that I was basically all right and the coughing diminished again, leaving me red-faced and a little hoarse, he resumed his seat, wearing his usual detached expression.

This was ridiculous, I chided myself silently. Holmes and I had spent thousands of mornings together at the breakfast table – granted not always in the brightest of moods – but never before had I felt this uncomfortable and insecure! I really needed to find a way to get myself under some kind of control; otherwise our future cohabitation would be in serious peril! The very thought caused my heart to beat against my chest in a hard and protesting fashion…

…leaving Holmes? What a strange thought!

It was absolutely impossible that I would do a thing like that again! True, I had done it before for Mary, said the nagging voice in the back of my mind. Would I do it again, given the choice? That was hardly a fair question, even to ask myself. I had loved Mary… but even then… had I not always loved Holmes as well, though in some different way? And back then, I had left Baker Street, yes, but I never really had left him! My wife, bless her generous soul, had always been granting me the freedom, emotionally as well as in fact, to pursue our friendship as well as our cases.

So, leaving him was out. But why could I not simply feel content with what I had? What _we_ had?

Holmes was my best friend, and I was his – which meant even more as I knew that normally he forged no real attachments at all. I was the only one he shared his personal life with; I was his partner at work, his companion in leisure. I did not even doubt his regard for me, his esteem, even some kind of affection, as far as the man was capable of such feelings towards a fellow human being.

So, why did I suddenly crave his love?

True, I was a man, and I had my desires, but why concentrating them on him, someone of my own gender? Left alone the problem that those particular cravings were commonly deemed immoral as well as illegal - if it _had_ to be a man, why of all possibilities _this_ man, the least probable of all?

Once again, my feelings must have surfaced, because suddenly I heard Holmes’ voice interrupting my thoughts. “Is anything the matter, old chap?”

“Hm? Why no! I had just contemplated a little walk outside to stretch me legs.”

He did not buy it, not for a second, I am sure. Nevertheless, he nodded. “Ah, the clean early morning country air! Very invigorating, eh, doctor?”

I allowed myself a direct look into his face to search for traces of irony, but his features resembled an unreadable mask. “Just so”, I agreed.

And so, hardly fifteen minutes later, we were strolling leisurely on the grounds, and as if the exercise of walking had broken some kind of spell, we soon found ourselves chatting about some recent London events and our old acquaintances here. I was almost ready to believe that we could simply go on as before. After all, nothing had really altered between us, right? My change of heart did not require any real consequences apart from a bit of self control, and that was the core of it. Soon there would be another interesting cases at hand to set our roles straight: Holmes, the great detective, and Watson, his loyal friend and colleague. Just as it was supposed to be… and yes, the thought made me feel better, at least for a while…

It lasted – perhaps – another quarter of an hour. Then my friend made a casual remark about some events occurring shortly before my departure for Devonshire... and my inner composure seemed to vanish into thin air. I suddenly – and very vividly – recalled my uneasiness before I left... the subtle tension of our conversations... all those things I, at that time, had not been able to put my finger on. Would those be gone once we were home again? Now that I at least knew their source?

I cannot say that I was convinced of that, but I knew of course that only time could tell what would become of it.

What suddenly struck me was that Holmes seemed to be a bit preoccupied himself. I knew this expression on his face from situations when he was pondering on some particulars of a crime – but as far as I could see, there was absolutely no crime at hand here. After all, we were not on a case, we were on... well... what was this all about? Holidays? Holidays with Sherlock Holmes – I could not help it, but the very thought put a grin onto my face.

“Something funny, my dear fellow?”

There! Preoccupied or not – I could never expect to escape his powers of perception!

“Uhm... frankly, I was just thinking how unusual – though very gratifying – it is to have you with me on a journey of leisure instead one of crime solving.”

A very brief smile crossed his features and was gone the next instant. “Mhm...” he conceded non-committingly. Then suddenly he looked straight into my face and I was struck by the full power of his silver-grey eyes. “I have simply been reconsidering a few aspects of my life, lately.”

“Oh, have you, indeed...” I said this completely without thinking, even without understanding what he might be talking about. The effect his eyes had on me, though, combined with a subtle and rather new undertone in his voice almost undid me.

Then, suddenly, he inhaled sharply, and the spell was broken. The tip of his walking cane hit the ground with, as it seemed to me, rather unnecessary vigour as we proceeded down the path. All of a sudden there seemed to be an air of frustration about him, for which I could not find a reason. His walking speed had increased considerably, and for a while I simply followed him, just the way I was used to do. There was something about his posture, almost as if his whole body was displaying a frown.

I am used to his moods and usually understand what triggers them. New developments in a case could get him excited, even into some state of elation. Music was able to soothe him and to fill him with some resemblance of contentment that could almost be mistaken for happiness. The lack of mental stimulation, boredom, was likely to throw him into a pit of lethargy and melancholy. I also knew very well the effects that blasted seven-percent-solution had on him. I pride myself that I know him in many aspects and generally also know how to adjust myself to the various situations. That day, however, I found myself at a total loss, and it took some time until I had gathered enough courage to ask the simple question: “Holmes, is something the matter?”

He suddenly stopped in his tracks (so that I had to take care not to accidentally bump into him) and turned to face me. He was breathing heavily, his eyes were wide open, and there was a certain glimmer of wildness, his posture showing an amount of tension that instantly reminded me of a cat of prey, getting ready to jump. Holmes looked at me in silence for an amount of time that seemed like an eternity, then he tilted his head and gradually his expression softened. He slightly shook his head.

“Have you ever considered me a coward, Watson?” His voice was barely audible.

“A coward - you? My dear chap, of all men I've ever met you are certainly the least one I would attribute that word to!”

A smile crossed his face, but it was a joyless one. “Thank you”, he said simply. “And yet. And yet...”

And then, with a sudden air as if we were strolling down Baker Street, he took my arm and assumed the countenance of Sherlock Holmes, the world’s foremost criminalist, the public persona everyone knew and which fit him just like a tailor-made glove. “Now, shall we?”

At that point I had already accepted that my mind was simply unable to grasp what was going on with him, and so I nodded with a suppressed sigh. “Whatever, Holmes. Whatever.”

Finally we reached the place that hosted the ancient stone hut, and I could not help but think of the unexpected awareness that had caught me during my latest visit there. Maybe he felt the sudden tension in my arm, or it was simply his remarkable intuition... anyway, he threw me a curious glance and said: “Would you please excuse me for a moment?”

He approached the entrance of the hut and then stood still, leaning against the stony frame, looking inside. I had the opportunity to admire the backside of his elegant form and his hair that was glistening in the sunlight like a piece of precious black silk, until he left the threshold and entered the room. It took him perhaps a minute or two; then he emerged again from the half-darkness, a lopsided smile curling his lips.

“I see you have taken a stroll on Memory Lane, lately”, he stated calmly, showing me the two cigarette stumps he had obviously found inside and which were obviously of my special brand, made in London and certainly not available anywhere around here.

There was no use – or any reason, come to that – to deny the facts, so I chuckled. “It is unbelievable that I seem to have allowed you to find me out the same way twice.”

I was glad to perceive an amused sparkle in his eyes, because it was, after all, a familiar sight. “Indeed”, he said with mock astonishment. “And I find that truly appalling!”

Something about the way he said that felt like Cupid hitting me with yet another one of his arrows. I felt incapable to take my look off his face, and he made no effort to look another way, either.

“Holmes”, I finally ventured, with a voice that felt as if it was not my own. “I can’t help myself, but I sense that you have been trying to tell me something today and just cannot bring it out.”

There it was again, that strange glimmer in his eyes that might be able to tell some tales about all of what was hidden behind his usual mask of self-control. The moment of silence stretched into minutes and I almost lost hope that he would speak his mind. He sat down on a large stone, hands on his knees, and seemed to form a resolution.

“When I boarded the train in London”, he finally began without looking at me, “I had planned to take care of a matter that had been bothering me for some time now. But now that I am here, it seems as if it turned out even more difficult than I had expected.”

I took my seat by his side. “Is it something in which I might be of any kind of assistance to you?”

“Assistance!” He let out a barking laugh and favoured me with an odd side glance. “Dear God... assistance!” The sigh that he heaved was positively one of exasperation, and his voice had an almost fierce edge when he blurted out: “For Heaven’s sake, Watson, I love –“

“Mr. Holmes! What a surprise!” We had not seen him coming, neither of us, but there was Doctor Mortimer, good-natured and pleased about the unexpected encounter.

I like the fellow, I really do. But I admit, at that very moment I only wished him being far away from us, preferably somewhere near the other end of the world.


	4. Truth be told...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, as the title suggests...

Sherlock Holmes is a master of self control, and however agitated he had been acting with me before, now in the presence of Dr. Mortimer he was all composure. This was more than I was able to say about myself, though.

For as long as I had known him, the word “love” had not been part of my friend’s vocabulary, except in combination with disdain or perhaps under the aspect of it being a possible motivation for a criminal deed. He never used it without a very good reason, and thinking about his remarkable behaviour since his arrival I was convinced that something was the matter with him.

Of course, for the time being, there was no possible way of getting it out of him - so I did what I was used to do, waiting for him to reveal whatever there was on his brilliant mind.

The three of us walked back towards Baskerville Hall, as it turned out that it was the place was Dr. Mortimer was heading to as well regarding some business with Sir Henry. I was more than disappointed that Holmes seemed unwilling to simply dismiss the doctor with some display of his occasionally cavalier attitude in order to grant the both of us further privacy. But no... no, with all I knew about my closest friend (however much that might really be worth), there was indeed a chance of him being even relieved about the interruption - a sentiment I found myself unable to share. Thus I felt much more irritable than I usually consider it to be my nature, and silently and rather absent-mindedly I trotted along with my companions.

Nevertheless, I could not help but admiring the satin shimmer of the morning sun on my dear friend's hair. While I did my best to will him into at least looking at me (without much success, though), I was only too aware that I was hopelessly and head-over-heels in love with him - and the question why it had taken me all this time (not to mention a rather lonely journey to Devonshire) to understand a fact that was so obvious now remained unanswered in my mind.

When we arrived at the Hall and were amidst the process of getting rid of our coats, hats and canes, Holmes suddenly said: "Oh, doctor...?"

Two heads, both Dr. Mortimer's and mine, were lifted in attention.

There was a hint of surprise in the face of my friend, as well as a hardly recognisable frown, when he saw two men reacting to this address. "You have to excuse me, Doctor Mortimer," he said with a faint smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "I'm rather unused to be accompanied by more than one medical man at once. I was referring to my colleague here."

"Oh, very well," was the doctor's reply. "I will see you later, gentlemen." With that he followed the servant towards Sir Henry's study.

A few silent moments passed, until I finally replied: "Yes, Holmes?"

He made an elaborate show of taking off his gloves, and if I had not known him better I had been convinced he was avoiding to look at me. "You seem slightly annoyed, my dear fellow."

It was my turn now to be surprised, because Holmes, when it suited him, was an expert in ignoring my occasional displays of annoyance, frustration or similar impulses.

"I was merely contemplating Mortimer's tendency towards bad timing."

"Ah!" He finally looked at me, and it was the most peculiar expression on his face that made my heart almost skipping a beat.

The next thing we heard was the noise of an opening door, and the voices of our host and the doctor approaching us. But with a barely suppressed curse and an air of determination Holmes suddenly gripped my arm. "Come with me!" And with that he almost dragged me into the next adjoining room, which happened to be the billiards room. There he closed the door between us and the rest of the world, his back against the wooden panels - and there he now closed his eyes and exhaled slowly as if steadying his nerves.

When he opened them again to look at me, I suddenly had no doubt about what was going on with him: For the very first time in my life I saw that he was... afraid.

He slowly approached the billiard table and moved around it. He only stopped, once the large object stood between the two of us like a protective barrier. "You know, there is a very simple reason for my coming here... I..." He turned to face me and cleared his throat. "I've been missing you."

"Oh." It was all that I could say for a moment. Then: "You mean you require me for a new case?"

"No. What I mean is that our sitting room is empty without you. So is Baker Street. And so is my… so is London."

I could only stare at him, trying to ignore my knees that where getting undeniably weak!

What was he saying? And what did it mean? After all, it was next to impossible that Sherlock Holmes, after all these years, was now getting emotional! There were a few truths in my life that I had learned to accept, and one of them was that Holmes despised the softer emotions!

And yet. And yet...

Was I not his only friend? Had I not learned after Reichenbach (though the hard way) how far he was willing to go in order to keep me safe? Was there not true affection in his voice when he called me my dear fellow? Had we not shared the good, the bad and the ugly? And had I not myself been feeling the underlying tension between us, lately back at Baker Street, deriving from obviously unspoken issues?

I did not dare to believe what I was longing to believe. Unspoken issues, I thought...

"Whereas I..." (I suddenly felt like jumping into cold water, and I was not even sure if I still remembered how to swim.) "...have only been feeling half of myself these past days, without you."

Two simple statements. Two simple truths. Two grown-up men, staring at each other in beginning amazement, not unlike two little boys facing a giant Christmas tree. And, in fact, we did exchange some kind of gift that moment - though it still seemed too early to call it by its name.

Holmes looked at me for a long while, and while he did so, his face began to change, almost as if some kind of veil had been removed from his expressions. He gave me a tentative smile. "In that case I am very glad I came."

"Yes. So am I. Very much so."

His smile deepened. "I have no cases right now," he said. "So I was wondering if you would tolerate my presence here for a little while. There should be fewer distractions than in London, so..." He hesitated for a moment, and then bravely continued: "So maybe we could explore this new territory together." He was obviously not referring to the landscape of the countryside. And then he gave a little grimace. "You'll have to pardon my ways of expression. I am rather inexperienced in comparison to the analogies and those flourishing words of a writer."

"I agree, Holmes..."

"Regarding the flourishing words, you mean?"

"No." In one of our usual situations of verbal banter I would have been sorely tempted to a dry remark about his occasional criticism of my writing skills. But this was not the time for banter. "I meant that I agree regarding your plans."

"You'll... hm... accompany me, then?"

In that moment flashes of memories passed my inner eye, like a summation of our shared past. And like a conclusion of that past I knew there was only one possible answer I could give him. "When you like - where you like!"

He threw his head back in a silent, utterly pleased laughter, and when his eyes met mine, there was definite twinkle. "This might be even much better than the old days...!"

Now - how could I possibly not agree to this?


	5. New Territory

To a stranger it might have occurred as an odd thing to do after such a memorable talk - but a few moments later we found ourselves examining the various billiard items. We did not have to discuss the reasons, but instinctively we felt the need for a little intermission at this point, a chance to catch our breaths and to marvel at the step we had just taken.

I suddenly remembered the conversation with our host on the evening of my arrival. "You know, my dear chap, Sir Henry had already been speculating about you and me finding the spare time between cases to practise this game together."

Holmes raised a single eyebrow in a way only he is capable of. "And with that, of course, you are referring to billiards, right?" His mouth twitched in amusement.

I coughed slightly, but I made no effort to suppress my grin. "Indeed."

"Well," he said, weighing one of the cues in his hand. "Actually I think it might be a good idea to try my hand at it. After all, this is about hand-eye-coordination, angles, physics, strategy... and... not to mention I'd enjoy sharing a pastime with you..."

I confess this suggestion, especially when expressed with such a disarming smile, warmed my heart quite ridiculously, and I was only too eager to comply with this idea. So I began to acquaint my friend with the basic rules, showed him how to deliver a shot and so on.

In between Barrymore appeared, but only in order to ask if we required anything. I could hardly tell the butler that right now I truly had everything I wanted, so I asked him for some tea. And so the rest of morning passed with Holmes and my sipping tea, playing billiards and getting comfortable with the prospect of the enhancement of our relationship, while Sir Henry seemed too busy (or too tactful?) to interrupt us.

Holmes actually turned out to be a natural at the game, and I had hardly a doubt that within short he might develop into a worthy opponent... or rather partner, I rephrased my thoughts, and the very word sent a distinctive tingle down my spine.

We had taken off our jackets, playing in vest and sleeves now, and I revelled in the sight of my friend's elegant movements, growing more and more secure with time. At one point, though, I felt compelled to perfom a minor correction. "You might want to try it like this..." I said and stepped behind him, my arms reaching around him to adjust his grip on the billiard cue.

I was suddenly standing much too close behind him, almost like spooning him in this unusual posture, our upper bodies slightly bent over the table. We froze in midst of the movement, both standing perfectly still... I believe I could even feel the warmth radiating from his body, and there was also a certain scent, warm and clean and intoxicating.

"John...," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. Then he moved slightly, leaning into my embrace, for all of a sudden this had nothing to do with a game anymore, and it was like he was melting into me, while he allowed his head to rest against my shoulder.

At that moment I wanted him so badly I could hardly breathe, and yet I could not even know how far he was intending to go with his "explorations".

Once more, though, he proved how short of reading my mind he was indeed, as he took my hand, lifted it to his face and placed a lingering kiss into the centre of my palm.

I could not prevent the low moan that escaped my mouth, and I instinctively took half a step backwards to bring a minimum of space between our lower torsos. I am a man, after all, and there is a limit of self-control, and somehow I had to resist the overwhelming urge of pressing myself against him and taking advantage of the horizontal surface of the billiard table.

He turned around to face me again, his gaze burning into mine, and that moment he allowed me to read everything about his intentions I needed to know.

"I very much regret," he said with a voice that was soft, but fuelled with something else, "...to interrupt this. But I fear it will only be a question of little time before we will be summoned to table."

We reluctantly released each other, and Holmes handed me my jacket. It is possible that we fussed about one another a bit longer than neccessary, making sure that our ties, collars and cuffs were straightened, buttons closed and so on, but it rendered the time to regain our composure as well. I felt his hand at the small of my back when he finally followed me into the hall.

~~~


	6. Taking a breath

The light lunch with Holmes and Sir Henry is very likely to always remain in my memory.

We were only the three of us, as Dr. Mortimer had already left in order to attend to his patients, and there was such a rare mood cast over our little group, that it would take a better writer than me to do it full justice. One of the words, though, that always come to my mind when I think of this day is glowing.

The sun was shining warmly through the windows, filling the room with a magnificent light. Sir Henry was in very good spirits, and whenever I looked at my friend, there was this... yes... this glowing in is eyes. Not the fierce energy that came upon him when he was hunting a criminal, and not the sparks of fascination over an intricate chemical experiment. This was different and, whatever it was, rather unprecedented.

Sir Henry had started to talk about his earlier life in America, and Holmes asked him several questions as he had never been there himself. Maybe, I thought to myself, he also considered it easier to listen than to come up with a coherent conversation himself, his mind being distracted by what had just transpired between us... as my own mind most certainly was.

To be more precise, I felt simply blown away! His lips in my palm, the expression on his face, his smile, his words... all of these seemed to be (though in a rather guarded manner) promises of things yet to come. And never before had he acted like this with me... or... or with anyone? Who was I to know? Today he had shown me a side of himself that I had never suspected there, and I was only too eager to explore this new facet of his, and explore it thoroughly. After all, he himself had invited me to do so.

He was sitting on the opposite side of the table, too far away to reach, even if it had been possible for me to try. And yet, I could feel him. Oh... how I could feel him! His presence filled the room, his voice was a caress, and every glance he ventured into my direction was like a physical touch.

It was not for the first time that day that I wondered how I could have lived side by side with this man for so many years, and without noticing the sensuality of his voice, especially when it trailed down into the lower registers. And how come that his elegant, enticing hands had left me so very unaffected for such a long time?

For a moment or two I allowed my imagination to go astray - because one thing was certain: I was all but unaffected by now! And I could not help but musing about getting up under the pretense of a headache, making my excuses to Sir Henry and having my friend following me after only so much time as tact affords.

Without any verbal form of communication we would agree to retire to my bedroom, which would be only dimly lit and all silent except the sound of our breathing and the rustling of clothing against skin and other fabrics and then descending to the floor. I would taste his lips, and his mouth would be not only yielding to my desires but even urge me forward, demanding more. I would echo his moans of pleasure, his body would be pressed against mine, unmistakeably showing me what he wanted and needed. Eventually we would stumble towards the bed, and then we -

"Would you please pass me the salt, my dear fellow?"

I jerked out of my reverie and met Holmes' intense gaze. Maybe I blushed - it would not surprise me at all - for I felt a heatwave surging up. My friend looked into my eyes as if he knew exactly what I had been thinking, but he was neither mocking nor chiding me. The message was only: I understand... And: This is not the right time or place... And he was right, of course.

I reached for the salt and handed it over, and it was with the hint of a smile, as he allowed his fingers to brush against mine when he took it.


	7. Approaching the Rubicon

The table had just been cleared, when Barrymore entered with a letter on his silver tablet. Sir Henry took it and thanked him with his usual little nod, and I, in my heightened state of mind, could not help but feeling oddly content with the sight. I can still very vividly remember our common adventure regarding the dreadful Hound incident that had cost among others the life of Sir Charles Baskerville and, subsequently, brought his young American heir Henry Baskerville to the ancient home of his family. I took in the little scene that spoke of home and trust and mutual respect when I suddenly watched the change of expression in the face of our host. He slowly let the note sink and stared for a moment blankly into mid air, before he seemed to compose himself. He cleared his throat.

"I fear there will be a change of plans regarding tonight's dinner party."

Holmes glanced at me questioningly, but I could only answer him with a puzzled look - before I finally realised that Sir Henry had indeed been talking about company for the evening. Could it really have been only a few hours ago?

I pulled myself together. "Has something happened, Sir Henry?" I enquired.

"Well, it seems our intended guest of honour has severely sprained her ankle this morning, so I fear we will have to put the plans for the evening on hold."

I had no idea whom he was talking about, and I was completely unaware of any supposed guest of honour, so I merely asked if my assistance as a doctor was required, whereas Sir Henry informed me that Doctor Mortimer was already attending to the patient. He seemed somehow confused and concerned and on the whole rather put out, and I was not quite sure what was going on.

"Sir Henry." Holmes' eyes met mine for a moment, before he continued. "While this is certainly a most unfortunate incident... why should you be forced to put all parts of your plan on hold? Even if the circumstances are altered?"

Our host stared at my friend, and I knew the expression on his face all too well! It was the face of someone convinced to be dealing with a mind reader. "How on earth do you know..." His voice trailed off, maybe because of the redundancy of the question.

Holmes added: "People seem to be spending their time waiting for the perfect moment to come. But even if a moment is not exactly perfect, it might still be the right one."

It was now my turn to stare, because I still did not know what exactly they were talking about, and even more so because of that sudden undertone of emotion in Holmes's voice.

Sir Henry looked at him for quite a while before finally asking: "Does that mean you both would forgive me for neglecting you this afternoon? I also need to reschedule the dinner and all that... and I might be out of the house for a while..."

"Our good doctor here -" Holmes smiled briefly in my direction, "- has been repeatedly admonishing me about getting some rest. Being a doctor, he might have a point, so... I think I am going to humour him today and allow myself a nap in the afternoon. What do you say, Watson?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think you can entertain yourself for a few hours today?"

"Why certainly." I was still not quite sure what they were talking about, but obviously it involved Sir Henry being absent for the rest of the day, and my mind was reeling at the idea. "I have brought several books along that are waiting to be read. Please, Sir Henry, feel free to do whatever you please, without any concerns about us. Anyway, I would not, after all, want to endanger Holmes's plans for rest - now that he finally seems to be willing to indulge me."

"Oh", remarked my friend. "Whatever the good doctor wishes..." He quirked an eyebrow and managed to sound just the slightest bit ironic, but I felt the heat rising in my face and started fussing with my napkin, because I could not help it - all of a sudden every second word my friend said seemed to contain a double meaning for me.

Sir Henry smiled gratefully, as to him our conversation did not seem to be anything outside the ordinary. Also, as I understood a bit later, when we left the table, his mind must have already gotten ahead of him anyway.

"So he is about to propose marriage?" I asked Holmes, as we retreated into the luxuriously filled library and sat down in two large leather armchairs by the fire.

"At least that's what I gathered, yes."

"But whom, I wonder?"

Holmes chuckled lightly. "My dear fellow, I am highly flattered by your trust in my observational and deductional skills, but as much as I loathe to admit it: They are not unlimited."

I could not help but smile at this. "I assume this bout of modesty is to be kept off the record, eh?"

This one was a genuine grin. "Oh, strictly! After all, we're both on holiday, isn't that right? I can say, though, that the letter was written on paper bearing the letterhead of the Vicarage. And I must assume that our host is not planning to marry the Vicar."

"Somebody in his household, then!"

"Exactly. And a lady who has been staying there long enough so that Sir Henry could get acquainted with her, and better acquainted than in the early days with the unfortunate Mrs. Stapleton. I don't think he is of the type to make the same mistake twice. So, are you aware of a lady other than the cook or the maid living in the Vicarage?"

I shrugged. "No... I don't think so. Even if Sir Henry had mentioned something along those lines... I fear my mind has been more in London than right here these days. I might have not been the most attentive listener."

"I see..." My friend looked at me thoughtfully and finally took out his cigarette case. But instead of opening it he just held it in his hands and seemed to study it for a while, before he laid it calmly on the armrest of his seat. He rose with a fluid movement. "I think I'm going to lie down, Watson. Sir Henry is surely in the process of getting ready for the meeting with his lady." He passed me by, and his hand rested on my shoulder for the briefest of moments. Then he was gone.

I was sitting there, forcing myself to breathe calmly and counted silently to fifty. Then I counted again to onehundred. And then I could see no valid reason to stay seated any further.

At the bottom of the staircase I met our host, who had dressed into a smart suit and was on his way out. I remember that we exchanged a few words, and that I wished him luck - but my mind was once more already elsewhere.

I knocked at the door to Holmes' room, and he answered me with a "Come in!" that seemed calm enough.


	8. Crossing the River

I will never forget the way he looked when I entered that room. He had taken off his coat, waistcoat and cravat, and his hair was in a slight disarray. The curtains were halfway drawn, so that only a part of the milder afternoon sun could reach into the room. Lights and shadows were playing over his white shirt, open at the collar, and he looked absolutely breathtaking.

I crossed the treshhold, and then I deliberately closed the door.

"Ah!" he said, approaching me slowly. "I knew I had been missing some-" And then he interrupted himself and shook his head, as I indicated his cigarette case that I had brought with me, as if I still needed an excuse for coming to him. "No. That's not what I meant." He plucked the case out of my hand and let it slid into the pocket of his trousers without taking his eyes off me. "Thank you, anyway", he added. And then he just kept looking at me, and I could only wonder if his heart was hammering in his chest the way mine did.

His gaze locked with mine, and it was just on the edge of my field of vision that I saw him slightly drawing his lips between his teeth. They were moist and red when he opened them again, and when he lifted his hand to my face and gently cupped my cheek in his palm, they started to form a tentative smile. "It is exactly like I said earlier," he said in a low-key baritone that seemed to go - head to toes - right through my entire body. "Whatever the good doctor wishes..."

The feeling of his touch was incredible, but the effect his words had on me was so distracting that it was only with an effort of coordination that I managed to put my one hand on his that was caressing my face, while at the same time my other was fumbling behind my back to turn the door key in its lock. His eyes widened at the unmistakable sound, and now that my second hand was free to roam again, I dared putting my palm against his chest. "I happen to wish for a good many things," I replied with a voice that seemed much too raspy in my own ears.

Holmes, though, did not seem to mind at all, and I could not spare any more attention to the functions of my vocal chords, because this moment was when he whispered: "All yours for the taking!" and his lips descended on mine.

During these last few hours, while the idea of kissing Sherlock Holmes, or being kissed by him, had been gradually changing from an impossibility to a question of just where and when and how, I had been thinking about how it would be with him. As far as I had been concerned before, he was as celibate as a devout monk and possibly as experienced regarding intimate relations as a virgin on her wedding night. But as far as I had been concerned before, kissing him was something that would simply never happen. And I had been wrong about that... had I been wrong in other aspects as well?

The thought did rush through my mind, but it was a fleeting one, and one of the last coherent thoughts for a while to come - because the moment he started kissing me, and I kissed him in return, and with all I had, my whole world seemed to narrow down to this contact... my body started to take over when his hands started to roam my still fully clothed skin. I felt his touch, his palms sliding down from my shoulders and gripping my upper arms insistently as if he wanted to make sure that I would not withdraw from him - not that I had the slightest intention to. As a matter of fact I was only too aware of not being satisfied with kissing him - despite of my previous best intentions to hold myself back a little, so he would not shy away from me. I still had no idea how far he might be willing to take these explorations... although his kiss was talking of nothing even remotely akin to shyness.

Holmes had always been a master of reading what was going on in my mind. His arms snaked around my waist, and the next thing I felt was a decisive pull towards him, so I found myself pressed flush against him - and oh, how I felt his own body against mine, and I could feel where he was hard and aroused and eager, and without a conscious thought I widened my stance so that his knee could slip between my legs, his upper thigh providing a maddening friction against my erection.

I began to groan helplessly into his open mouth, the sound only partly smothered by his lips and tongue. He withdrew for just an inch, heavily panting by now and eyes wider than I had ever seen them. "John..." His voice was a loud whisper, and it was a moan, and a declaration, and a plea as well - and it was either him shoving me or me pulling him with me, or perhaps both, but soon I found myself pinned against the next wall and in a state of partly undress, and then he was on his knees in front of me, and I bit into the fabric of my otherwise already abandoned cravat in order to prevent myself from shouting with pleasure. His dark head was bobbing up and down, and I stared down at the most amazing sight I had ever seen. I heard him moaning around my flesh and saw the movement of his right hand, touching his own hard length, and I felt something hot and wild building up deep inside of me - not unfamiliar and yet new and overwhelming in its intensity... then I felt a hitch in Holmes' rhythm, accompanied by a throaty noise that told me we were both hovering just over the edge. "Holmes..." I managed to gasp. "Yes! Sher-.... Sherlock!" And we were falling and then flying and holding each other until the shaking subsided and was replaced with a bone deep feeling of contentment and peace.

 

(t.b.c.)


	9. Afterglow

The faint crackle of a log in the fireplace and the occasional rustle of Holmes’ newspaper were the main sounds in the otherwise quiet room. A casual observer would have hardly noticed anything unusual about us: My friend and I, both in proper gentlemen’s attire in front of the fire, the paper respectively a book in hands and in companionable silence. Nobody would have noticed how loaded with unspoken words the room actually was.

Oh, we had shared a certain amounts of words earlier, up in his room. Not all of them had been intelligible or even coherent, and a good amount of them had not been fit to be uttered anywhere else than behind a securely locked door. That is why we had had to leave them behind us at the threshold, so to speak, when we had grudgingly decided that it was about time to leave the bed, remove any traces of our passionate but illicit doings and reappear in the library for tea. Sir Henry had not yet returned from his rendezvous, which – needless to say – was more than fine with me: My outward composure at this point was, after all, not much more than smoke and mirrors, and I was not yet ready to share Holmes’ company with anyone else.

I could still feel the echo of his touch all over my body and his breath ghosting over my skin. His lips – how could I ever have imagined them setting my senses on fire like they had done just an hour ago? How could I have even guessed the way his features looked in the moments of ecstasy, when this great mind of his ceased control and actually succumbed to waves and waves of bodily pleasure? I had seen his eyes full of emotion, and had felt him clinging to my body as if his life had depended on it. And yet – it was not easy to reconcile these very fresh memories with the picture of propriety that was sitting just a touch away from me, silently perusing the latest news and sipping tea.

He seemed to be his usual self, and part of me was glad about that. His power of self-control would help keeping us safe in the future, in a society that condemned this kind of carnal relationships between two men. Without my intending to do so back then, my writings had already created a public picture of him that hardly encouraged speculations about any romantic or sexual pursuits, which now seemed a blessing in itself. And as I was now watching him lounging in his armchair, I could see how easily I had been misled until today…

Deep inside my mind, though, he was still holding me in his arms, our legs pleasantly entangled, our breathing once more calm and steady.  
“I take it –“ he ventured after a while, “that you have been… hm… enjoying the new territory?”

He had his lips close to my temple, and therefore I could not see his face – so I propped myself up on one elbow and looked him in the eyes, before I made a point of kissing him thoroughly. “Why, Holmes…,” I replied with mock surprise. (Apart from the most intimate moments he would always be “Holmes” for me.) “I thought that much is obvious.”

He chuckled and ran his hand through my hair. “Well, yes.”

“Good, I’m glad. Otherwise I would have feared for your powers of observation.” I could not help but tease him a bit, but then I turned serious again – because I sensed the real question behind his words. “I’ve enjoyed it exceedingly… and… I do hope we will find opportunities of further explorations.” _And, no, I don’t feel any shame… or any doubts… no regrets… never doubt that I am yours…_

He smiled. “I’m very glad we agree on that.”

His fingertips had started a trail down my spine, and I reveled in the sensation of this comparatively chaste and yet so intimate touch.

“I was getting the impression – that the territory as such is not exactly… new to you, you know...”

“I assume I may take that as a compliment,” he huffed with a hint of amusement, while his sensitive, dexterous fingers continued their journey on my front. “Physical relations and all that… they have not been much of a priority with me… originally… but that does not mean that I did not, well, dabble occasionally… for the sake of the experience. After all, I had not known you, back then. And I had not known how different…” His voice trailed off. Instead he used his free hand to pull me closer. “…how different things could be,” he eventually added, before we continued our… mutual explorations…

Holmes shifted slightly in his armchair opposite mine, and when I refocused my attention on him as part of the here and now, I saw that he had put aside his paper and was watching me instead with such an expression of affection in his face, that it literally gave me a tiny jolt at the unusual sight. It was mere habit that made me look elsewhere for a moment, before I reminded myself that all of a sudden there was nothing I had left to hide from my dearest friend. So I deliberately met his eyes now, and it felt like an extraordinary luxury, being able to do this in such a fashion.  
Holmes must have felt something along these lines himself – at least that was what his smile seemed to tell me. “I have a confession to make,” he suddenly said into the silence.

“A confession, Holmes?”

“Mhm.” He held my gaze for a second longer, before he suddenly rose and walked over to one of the bookcases. “Yes…” he added, took one of the books there and handed it to me. It was Beeton's Christmas Annual of the year 1887, and I could only stare without comprehension. “I happen to be in the possession of a very well-thumbed version of this particular book.”

“ _A Study in Scarlet_?” I asked incredulously. It was indeed the very periodical which had first published the account of his first case that I had been privy to witness, all these years ago. It was also the account of our very first meeting in one of the laboratories of St Bart’s – and I remembered also, how very unenthusiastic Holmes’ remarks upon its publication originally had been. He actually had blamed me for transforming his display of scientific thinking and logical deductions into an adventurous novel. And since then, he had never shown any particular interest for this kind “romantic drivel”. It is thus no wonder that this revelation of his came to me as a huge surprise.

He bowed down to me and rested his hands of the armrests of my seat. “After this day,” he said in a low voice, “I will probably deny having ever admitted to anything of this kind. But I am telling you nevertheless, that I have more than once used this text, as well as all your others, to try to understand what you might be seeing in me. And I must say I derived a great deal of comfort from them, as well as a certain amount of frustration regarding the… vagueness of its content regarding that question. I’ve come to the conclusion that I would really like to hear you reading a bit of that to me, if you don’t mind. It might, after all, be very instructive to hear the words from the author himself, right?”

“Oh, Holmes…” I shook my head and had to suppress the urge to grasp the impossible man and kiss him senseless… “I will, I gladly will, my dear – and later this evening I would like to add a few further remarks on that subject. And I will gladly give you a more detailed answer about the question, what I really… _really_ … see in you.”

“Ah!” He sat down with a most satisfied grin. “That would be very… agreeable.”  


_t.b.c._

**Author's Note:**

> I really must apologize... I had posted the first parts of this story ages ago on lj and never finished it, while life happened to me. I am back at writing now, though, and eager to finish this - and yes, there WILL BE updates!! Hopefully I will find some new readers here who are not yet annoyed with my irregular updating... so, here's the whole story from the start, slightly overhauled and also amended plot... REALLLY! ;) I hope you like it, and please do share your thoughts! :) THX!


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